


We Nearly Forfeit

by Lidsworth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, M/M, Plo is sad, Wolffe is mad, discussion of clone army as slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: Wolffe hardly argues with his General, but when he does, he rages.





	We Nearly Forfeit

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for finishtheclonewars writing Wednesday on tumblr. The prompt was disagreement. You can read it on my tumblr [here](http://inkstranger.tumblr.com/post/164848822079/title-we-nearly-forfeit-summary-wolffe-hardly):D 
> 
> Also, I'm my own beta so beware of the errors.   
> Title taken from Bon Iver's song "Wash"!

Commander Wolffe had darted towards the Medbay the moment that the holoforms of Generals Windu and Yoda had vanished. The air was somber as he stalked through the hallway, brothers walking idly through the corridor, faces dull and expressions grim.

The drab that seemed to hold onto them all so tightly only intensified as men encountered their Commander. They cast him pitying glances, and had he been himself, he would have returned all their furrowed brow, grim stares with a scowl harsh enough to keep them awake at night (Wolffe could not  _stand_ to be pitied).

But the Commander wasn’t himself—no one was.

For their General had almost died saving them.   
  
Had put himself in between his men and a barrage of blaster bolts without a moment’s hesitation, body being plastered with fire and plasma before he could even clip off his saber (though Wolffe doubted he would have done so, not if it meant he’d be unable to save his men).

 _What a waste,_ Wolffe had thought to himself the moment the Kel Dor’s body had crashed onto the ground, readying his weapon as his own body switched to auto-pilot.

There had been a Wolf hunt on the battle field that evening. They had fought for their General harder than they had ever fought for the Republic, the image of Plo sacrificing himself for them etched into their minds.

The end of the battle saw not a single battle droid standing, and their neimoidian leaders had followed the exact same fate.

Though adrenaline had still pumped through Wolffe’s blood like fire through a barrel hours after the fact, and it shook him to his very core. They had taken out the Separatist, but no amount of Revenge could undo what had been done to their General.

For that very reason, Wolffe did what he could to steady his nerves has he stepped over the threshold and into the Medbay.

From what he could see, the General was in quarantine, clone medics working in a sectioned off area of the infirmary, gas mask in place while helium and Dorin gas pump into the small sanctuary they had made.

Wolffe could see little past their white uniforms and the dim light of the medical wing, but still opted for pulling a chair as closely to the General as he could.

—-

He fell asleep, hours of exhaustion, anxiety, and anger finally catching up to him.

When he came to, the General’s talon was hovering over his head, almost as if to touch him and jolt him out of his sleep. He wouldn’t be surprised if Plo did just that.

A silence befell the two before either spoke, and Wolffe took the small moment to relish in relief. Plo was  _alive,_ bandaged up and due for a long stay in the infirmary, but  _alive_  none the less.

The Kel Dor sat up silently in his bed, looking towards the clone commander with the same neutral expression as always (at one point or another, either the men had moved Plo’s bed to Wolffe, or they had moved Wolffe’s chair to Plo).

The only difference was that Plo’s hand now rests on his lap, away from Wolffe’s. The absence of his distracting claw gave Wolffe an opportunity to examine his General’s injuries thoroughly, and  _Force,_ were they awful.

His skin was charred in places it shouldn’t have been, the normal, fleshy orange now a burnt, angry red. And that was just from what he could see outside of the bandages. He imagined underneath the bacta and gauze, the General’s tough hide had been nearly disintegrated.

All this because  _he_ couldn’t stick to the plan. All of this because he had to throw himself in front of his men, in front of clones.

Wolffe couldn’t contain himself when he spoke next.

“It’s not your job to die for us, General!”          

The Kel Dor jolts slightly, tilting his head curiously at his soldier’s unwarranted outburst. If he had eyebrows, he would have raised them, though he supposes Wolffe understands his ‘unreadable’ expression enough to know that he is appalled.

But a quick deduction of their current situation gives Plo the answers he needs.

Wolffe is upset about earlier. And judging by his Force signature, positively livid.

“And it is not your job to die for me, Wolffe,” retorts the Kel Dor, calmly, “I am a Jedi, and I will not hesitate to sacrifice myself if it means saving a life—“

The clone groans in utter annoyance, bringing his hands to his face and dragging them across his eyes and down his chin in pure irritation. Never having seen his Commander in such a disarray (at least not directed towards him), the gesture silences the Kel Dor.

“You still don’t get it, Sir, do you,” Wolffe objected, “We are clones, we are not normal lives—we’re made to fight for the Jedi, we’re made to die for them. We’re made to die for you.”

“I don’t believe that.” Plo stated, much to Wolffe’s fury.

Plo was a Jedi. He was a Clone. The kindness shown to he, Boost, and Sinker in the aftermath of the destruction of  _The_ _Malevolence_  by Plo meant little in the grand scheme of things. There was an obvious power imbalance, and Wolffe was damn tired of Plo ignoring it to justify his recklessness.

He couldn’t contain his anger when he spoke next. In fact, he couldn’t contain anything.

“Please, General,  _please_ don’t say that.  You can claim that we’re ‘not numbers’ or ‘original’ or whatever Jedi-shit that makes you feel better about running a slave army all you want. But nothing you can say,” his voice is raised now, his tone tight and potent, like a knife to Plo’s thick hide, “General, will change the fact that we are just clones—that we will never be anything  _but_ clones trapped in an army which we had no say of enlisting in. You being here is proof of that, you and all the other Jedi. The  _least_ you could let me and my men do is perform our duties efficiently without giving us false hope.”

The words escaped his lips before he had the chance to properly filter them out. His anger had done so for him, had riled up a part of him that he had long since rationalized with, and thrown his dirty laundry out into the open.

The Fear of losing his General had shaken him to his core, had broken his legendary composure and left his deepest and darkest feelings exposed. The audacity to assume that Plo was, by any means, below the clones to the point where he would sacrifice himself for them had terrified Wolffe (because it meant he’d do it again).

So the commander had nailed the cold, hard truths into his head.

But…but he hadn’t meant for it to be like that.

“Shit…I’m sorry. I didn’t— ”

Now it was Plo’s turn to interrupt, and he did so with a four fingered hand raised sharply in the air, the gesture silencing the Commander before he could speak.

“It’s fine, Wolffe, I understand why you think that way.”

Wolffe fights the urge to groan again, the fear of screwing up more than he already had keeping him civil.

“No, it’s not fine—I never meant anything I said,” he admits, defeated, “I’m just angry.”

“But it is true, Commander. Is it not. I do try my best to alleviate the suffering you and your brothers experience just by existence, but my very presence here is a constant reminder of the injustice you are all forced to live,” lamented the Kel Dor, first balling into the sheets as he avoided his Commander’s eyes, “There is not a day that goes by where I don’t regret my part in your enslavement.”

The last word stings—badly. And Wolffe fights the urge to collapse back into his chair in complete shame (he hadn’t even realized he’d been standing).

Instead he goes for the bed, sitting beside his General, his presence demanding the alien’s attention.

“You…you make the best out of it, General,” managed the man, somewhat optimistic, “You care about me and my brothers, you don’t send us on reckless operations like General Skywalker or General Krell, you try to get to know us all personally—”

“It does not change anything, Wolffe,” chided Plo, “Not to me at least, I am still a Jedi and you are still a clone. I do my best to help…to make things easier…like I did today. But only when we are all gone will your brothers be free—“

“Hey, don’t talk like that,” Wolffe took Plo’s clawed hands in his grasp, squeezing them to emphasize his point,  “We…I don’t want you gone. I got a little mad, alright. Doesn’t mean you can start talking all crpyti—“

“You should have left me to die, Wolffe. You could have deserted. I wouldn’t have been there to stop you. You—”

Wolffe’s stomach turns flips at the mere idea of his General dying, and he squeezed his  hand harder than usual in order  to stop the mad train of thought.   
  
“General stop it…” he sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He was so tired, so exhausted.   
  
From fighting, from life. But if anything, the General give him a reason to wake up every day.

“Truth  is, that none of this is fair—none of this is right,” he wouldn’t elaborate. They didn’t need any more of that, “But being your Commander—serving under you makes things a lot easier. You dying wouldn’t help us Plo,” He doesn’t miss the way the Master reacts to the mention of his name, “We’d just be shipped off to another General…a general like Krell or Skywalker. You care about us Plo, you make it bearable. And even if you don’t see that, it means  _a lot._ ”

“It’s fucked up, but we’re lucky to have you.” Wolffe finished, gracing Plo with one of his rare smiles.  

“I’m the lesser of the evils, then?” Asked the alien, somewhat amused.

“No, you’re not evil…you’re not perfect either, this system isn’t perfect. But you’re not evil. Your just my General, and that’s how I like it.”

Plo hums in agreement, a sad smile quite visible on his wrinkly face.

He wondered if, somehow, it would have been appropriate to kiss his General then (and while the urge seemingly came from nowhere, he supposed it suddenly made so much sense  _why_ he was so angry. Plo was more than just a general to him), but decided against it, for Plo had already fallen asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed it. If you did, give me a quick kudos and leave a comment! Also, chat with my on [My tumblr](http://inkstranger.tumblr.com/)


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